Goldfinch
by Lone Gunwoman of the Week
Summary: Missing scene from Doomed. Willow ponders how to comfort a certain demon.


Title: Goldfinch Author: virtue_fluttering Rating: PG Category: post-episode Spoilers: Season 4, post-Doomed Pairing: Willow/Spike Summary: Missing scene from "Doomed." Willow ponders how to comfort a certain demon. Disclaimer: Willow, Spike, Xander, Anya, and any other character mentioned herein is the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and UPN. "Twilight Time" belongs to the Platters. "Elusive Butterfly" belongs to Bob Lind. "Lakeshore Drive" belongs to Aliota Haynes Jeremiah, and who they belong to, I don't know. But they did write the best 'driving home at 4 in the morning' song ever, so whoever does should be proud. Lyrics to all three songs are just an e-mail away. Notes: Not really any..oh, Angelus is Spike's sire (because I stopped listening to anything Joss Whedon said half-way through Season 4). Warning: I've written in other fandoms, but this is my first Buffy story. Plus I'm used to writing humor, so please be gentle, if not kind. Dedications: Rene for all the listening and critiquing, and, of course, for being a total fangirl enabler.  
  
*************************************************************************  
  
She's never seen his knees before.  
  
It's the kind of observation that creeps up and knocks you off your feet with both its novelty and its utter randomness. Unforseen, yet..kinda cool. Compelling.  
  
Like those knees.  
  
Habitually concealed beneath coarse black denim, peeking out from beneath short beige khakis. Compelling..cool. She'd go so far as to call them 'cute' were the person attached to them not likely to snap her neck. Or at least wish he could, without having to swallow a bottle of aspirin or three.  
  
They're white. Smooth alabaster white, with a light dusting of pale blond hair. Much like his face, hands, and she imagines ..well, the rest of him, then chastises herself for imagining. They're the color of a slice of freshly picked apple, her grand- mother's antique bone china, a newborn kitten's soft tummy.  
  
And those knees are quietly, almost imperceptibly shaking.  
  
The temperature on a November evening in Sunnydale is a steady 76 degrees without so much as a whisper of a breeze. The temperature inside Xander's Honda is slightly higher, with the closest thing to a whisper emanating, or rather *wheezing* from the more-than-slightly decrepit air conditioner.  
  
Apocalypse averted once again, the Scoobies had said their goodnights and made their way to their respective automobiles with a minimum degree of fuss, until the question of Anya's transportation became apparent. Buffy elected to walk home with Riley - more quality time with a not quite spanked-out new boyfriend, Giles' Citroen was halfway down the street before the question could be raised (no accident), which left the Xander-mobile for Xander, Anya, Willow, and Spike.  
  
Xander drove, of course. Anya's fluid-exchange privileges outranked Willow's dibs on the passenger seat ("the girlfriend always wins out over the best friend and the sometime arch- enemy. 'Tis the way of smoochies."), leaving the novice witch and the veteran vampire to the squeeze into the back.  
  
The drive between Xander's house and what used to be Sunnydale High School is approximately fourteen traffic-free, weather- friendly minutes. For some reason, the powers that be have decided that tonight Xander will hit every red light between here and Los Angeles, and each light will warrant at least a five minute wait. During which Xan taps out a silent drum solo on the steering wheel, Anya alternately fiddles with the radio - jet-setting from station to station with the rapid speed of a siren on a high dose of Ritalin - and extolls the advantages of kamikaze demon fashion in the twentieth century as opposed to the tenth, and Willow attempts to shift into a more comfortable position in the Honda's miniscule back seat, one keen eye secretively focused on the blond vampire to her left.  
  
Spike takes up the place next to her on the bench seat, more sprawled then seated. Long legs and shaking knees half-spread behind the driver's seat, which has been pushed back to accomodate Xander's height. If the position is uncomfortable, he doesn't seem to notice, his cool gaze seemingly fascinated with the stretch of suburban wasteland whipping past them. The quasi-euphoria he experienced earlier when he learned, though the chip in his head had pretty much rendered him helpless when it came to humans, he could still fight demons has since disappeared from his features. What's left is a pointed, introspective, dare she say almost vulnerable stare Willow doesn't recognize and Xander doesn't seem to notice, still wrapped up in a leather vs. rawhide debate with Anya.  
  
An about-face from the alert and animated vamp of a couple hours ago, with a backseat all to himself, who was pissed that he had to wear Xander's clothes when his own shrank in the wash. Who was thoroughly appalled at their post-ponement of a perfectly good suicide attempt in favor of a trip to a dusty, old museum. Who reacted to Xander's comment on preferring a *dusty,* old basement. Who was loud, at least verbal. And not shaking.  
  
She can't get over that.  
  
Spike, William the Bloody, Childe of Angelus, Slayer of Slayers, one of the most reputed vampires in history, passionate, brutal, without remorse, without fear.  
  
Shaking.  
  
And vulnerable. Even at his most despondent, Spike had managed to be prickly, irritable, recalcitrant, downright mean. He liked being mean. He said it was one of those things that came with being evil. He preferred to be that way than show any kind of vulnerability, his demeanor during the last few months in the Scoobies' care had clearly proven that. Evil doesn't feel vulnerability, it's not in the package. What could have happened that would cause that embittered, sarcastic mask to slip?  
  
Sounds linger from up front as Willow muses. Xander switches the air conditioner off with an annoyed 'flick' and begins to attack the crank handle that will roll his window down, when it so chooses. A big yay for gift cars. The folky, upbeat tempo of "Lakeshore Drive" fills the air, as Anya finally settles on a station, then quickly begins playing with the dial again. Xan briefly abandons the handle in favor of beeping the horn as the Honda passes a familiar couple walking along the sidewalk, a nightly pasttime only one pair on the Hellmouth could ever pull off.  
  
Turning in her seat to wave to Buffy, her eyes return to study Spike, while the blond vampire shifts down in the seat a little. He really doesn't look bad in Xander's clothes. He actually kind of looks good. Well..not *good* in terms of, well, *good*, but good as in well, cute. No, not 'cute'. Kind of tousled and ..and hey, not many guys could pull off that shirt. Willow sure can't see Giles in that shirt. Or Oz, who was always fit in more with the faded t-shirt crowd. Riley made good use of both his preppy teacher-wear and his G.I. Joe outfit, but somehow she couldn't see him in that shirt either.  
  
Riley.  
  
The answer knocks her off her feet almost as much as the sight of those shaking knees.  
  
/"Don't I know you from somewhere?"/  
  
Ohhh.  
  
/"Me? No. No sir, ahm jus' an old friend of Xandeer's here."/  
  
I see, said the blind witch.  
  
And not only does she see, it makes sense to her. Unlike his longing to kill people again which really is more of a vampire thing so she doesn't expect, or even actually *want* to understand that.  
  
Before, they were commandoes. Commandoe*S*. Plural, non- personal. Blank, fierce non-entities who captured a master vampire and shoved a micro-chip into his head. A vague mass of faceless, nameless soldiers that may or may not have also been scientists, with a lab that may or may not have been underground, with an escape hatch that may or may not have been in the middle of a field on the Sunnydale campus.  
  
Now one of those commandoes has a face and a name, and he's the boyfriend of the slayer. Wow. Can't beat that winning combination. Now if only Angel could just drop by for a visit, the situation would be perfect.  
  
Willow knows that Buffy will keep Spike's secret and even if Riley does realize who he is, she won't let him take him, the old 'If he's going to get staked, *I'm* going to be the one to do it' for once coming through in his favor. But for Spike, her sometime mortal enemy, that dubious promise of protection has to mean very little.  
  
Otherwise, why the shaking? And the attempted stakeage earlier? For a split second Willow wonders (and worries) that he might try to dust himself again. She can feel residual waves of sympathy attempting to slip out undetected.  
  
/"You know I'd drain you drier than the Sahara if I had half a chance."/  
  
/"You couldn't even keep dog boy happy. You can take the loser out of high school, but.."/  
  
The urge quickly retreats when she remembers that that kind of support will more than likely not be welcomed. Never mind that he *does* have fear, never mind that it's natural. And vampires have to have enough natural fear to make up a sense of self- preservation. It's a matter of survival. Because it's of humans - however much their actions seem to dispute that - and he's a vampire, he would sooner dust himself in a sworn enemy's/general nuisance's basement than admit it.  
  
Willow's gaze returns to her lap, suddenly fascinated by the random scrapes that cover her knuckles as well as the light yellowing bruises on her wrists that are sure to be a gorgeous screaming lilac tomorrow. Demons can be a difficult lot when approached. Her brain coughs up that they should come with little yellow warning labels, like the materials the school used to order for the science club.  
  
She has a scar on her left hand. Barely noticeable even when it's not covered by dried blood and hellmouth dust, it rests valiantly cradled between her thumb and index finger. A some- times cherished memento in jagged silver of an early Spring afternoon a little more than a decade earlier.  
  
At one time, she, Xander and Jesse had a tree-house. A motley little construction haphazardly assembled in the fork of a tree in Jesse's backyard, one could hardly call it a tree- house really. It was mostly some old planks Xander's uncle had leftover from his most recent construction job and had graciously bestowed upon the trio of eight year olds who managed to put together a floor and two walls on their own before he stepped in to finish the job.  
  
One muggy April morning, Xander, ever the leader before he became the Zeppo, had flung open the treehouse door only to call down to his two friend's a most disturbing discover: a rogue bird had found its way into their inner sanctum and was lying on its side on their hideaway's dusty plank floor, twitching and apparently still alive. Jesse's Gramma Mary determined that the poor bird, a 'goldfinch' she called it, must have flown in through one of the tree-house's paneless windows and hit it's head on one of the support beams. With all deliberate speed, she quickly packed the trio of pre- adolescents into the back of her Buick Century for an unexpected trip.  
  
During the car ride to the animal shelter, Willow had stroked the young finch's feathers, whispering babbled reassurances between each tender touch, only to have the injured bird reward her niceties by taking a quarter-sized chunk of flesh out of the hand that had petted him. The ride to the shelter was quickly followed by a trip to the emergency room, where doctors punched seven stitches into the gaping wound and promised the tearful nine year old attached to it that it would heal without scarring.  
  
They'd lied. Sort of. It had scarred, sure. But did that really matter when almost no one saw it?  
  
Her secret gaze drifts back to the vampire on her left.  
  
If it had been Buffy, it'd mean finishing off the last of the 'sorry I cursed you' cookies and some up 'till 2 a.m. girltalk. If it had been Xander, it'd mean crashing out on his couch with some rasberry fruit punch and a good Indian soap opera. The touch of a hand, a punch on the shoulder, a shoulder to cry on. The usual friendly comfort stuff.. which had the unfortunate habit of assuming friendliness in precendence of offering comfort.  
  
Yes, that was a nasty habit.  
  
More sounds from up front. Xander quietly cursing the latest red light, and all it's little baby red lights before praising them as it finally changes to green. Anya's never-ending assault on the radio seems to finally be over. Back to "Lakeshore Drive," which quickly fades and segues into "Elusive Butterfly." The 1000 plus year old former vengeance demon seems to favor the classics station. The conversation has turned from demon fashion to demon laundry. How many cups of detergent does it take to get blood out of a buckskin cape? Will adding a bit of lemon and salt help? Do you line dry it or take a chance at tossing it in the dryer? Should you just forgoe the hassle and take it to a dry cleaner? Does it have to be a 'special' dry cleaner? Does 'special' have to mean 'demon?' Between two teaspoons and half a cup. Only if you plan on mixing a margarita. Line dry. Probably. Absolutely. Yes.  
  
Huh. What *kind* of demon dry cleaner?  
  
Without warning, the Honda's wheels choose this particular moment to skid over an unfinished speed bump, left to rot and inconvenience the occasional motorist when some members of the Sunnydale Maintenance Union walked off the job the night of graduation, never to be seen again. The sudden jolt sends a shock wave through the car, jostling Xander and Anya and nearly sending his back passengers through the roof.  
  
Startled from whatever thoughts had possessed him moments before, Spike's hands come up to brace himself against the driver's seat. Willow's head collides with the passenger seat and as the car moves back onto paved ground, momentum pulls the rest of her is back to collapse against the seat. No working seatbelts in the back. Another big yay for gift cars. The initial shock having worn off, she takes advantage of the moment to place her open palm on the lowest part of Spike's thigh, fingers tentatively closing around his knee. She holds her breath and stares straight ahead, avoiding the curious gaze she knows is now fixed on her.  
  
He can pretend it's for her, that she's the one that's shaking. She wants him to pretend it's for her. He did this for her once. Maybe he'd do it again. Actually, he probably wouldn't. But, she reasons, he can pretend. He has to. She tightens her grip enough to bruise - wondering briefly if the cool flesh under her grasp will indeed bruise, though even after his scuffles with Buffy, she's never seen him with so much as a shaving nick - and the wave suddenly crests and falls away.  
  
He can't hit her, she reminds herself. He can't bite her. What can he do, really?  
  
/"Or you're still the tenth grade losers you've always been."/  
  
Oh, yeah.  
  
Scrambling for the last threads of courage, she turns to meet his stare.  
  
The tone in his gaze is hard, but not sharp. An odd mix of curiosity, impassivity, and puzzlement. None of the caustic hostility and indignation that would have been familiar, and therefore not scare her so much. But the faintest spark of flintlock grey outrage is there to both give her hope and drive her scared factor up a notch. It's a challenge that she chooses to meet head on, swallowing her apprehension and tightening her grip on his knee even further, her thumbnail digging into the soft tendon hidden slightly beneath the hem of the short pants. He'd asked her earlier that night if he was still capable of being scary. If she could have foreseen this moment, her answer would have been a resounding 'yes.'  
  
To her surprise, the tone of his gaze lightens and the corners of his mouth perk up, a hint of his trademark sneer tugging at full lips. The mental smack she gives herself for noticing Spike's lips causes her to dig her nails even further into his skin. She doesn't need to look down to know that blood has begun to sleepily pour over her fingertips. She knows by the broad grin that has broken out across his face. Almost reminiscent of his vamp visage. A little too reminiscent.  
  
Vitriol, not venim. But it doesn't make her breathe any easier.  
  
The spark of grey in his eyes has broadened to a glittering, dizzying, blue. A June sky at one o' clock, the topmost layer of a cherry raspberry Kool Pop, the propane flame of his Zippo. Maybe he can smell her fear. Maybe he's just amused by this former tenth grade loser's feeble attempt at comfort for a 126 year old de-fanged vampire, wanting to reassure him he's still the big, bad, bloody animal he was that night in her dorm room and her fear is just a bonus.  
  
Maybe Spike just responds to pain. It does always seem to work when Buffy wants to keep him in line.  
  
Either way, both the cool touch of his hand on hers, long, elegant fingers twining with short stubby ones, and the cold wetness of her fingertips on his tongue a minute later serve to send both her fear and something else into overdrive.  
  
Ohhhhhhhhh boy...uh.....huh..  
  
Her other hand blindly gropes the edge of the seat behind her. Cold vinyl and frayed plastic. Rough, slick, harsh, cool, soft, wet...ohhh boy..  
  
"Elusive Butterfly" becomes "Twilight Time."  
  
He finishes quickly and, with a parting smirk, gently places her hand back in her own lap. A quick glance down at their neighboring thighs shows his knee to be fully healed. Nary a trace of her willful damage left on suddenly stilled flesh.  
  
Not shaking now. Not at all.  
  
And Spike's sitting tall in his seat, eyes still fixed on what's outside his window, but with a clear, focused, completely Spikish expression. Mixed with something akin to delight. She risks a quick look at her hands: one dusty, scabby, the other clean, no dust, no blood - dried or otherwise, scrapes suddenly healed but for one ancient one near her thumb - too late for that one, still damp. Sticky.  
  
Shaking. Both of them. All of her, shaking.  
  
Did that just happen? What..  
  
What just happened?  
  
"Hey, Wills."  
  
"*Yeah*?" Willow's voice squeaks out as she whips around to face the front seat.  
  
"I've got a couple pairs of black jeans and two or three black t-shirts in my laundry basket at home. The tags all say 34" long but, hey, labels lie all the time. What do you say, want to take them off my hands?"  
  
A pregnant silence follows Willow's prepatory "Uh.."  
  
A tentative refusal lies comatose on the back of her tongue and she can sense the acidic retort on the back of Spike's. Finally, it's Anya's peppy reply that supplants them both:  
  
"Denim makes effective restraints."  
  
The statement startles Xander into almost missing the next red light, quickly slamming on the brakes. His back passengers are prepared this time and brace themselves against the seat, feet firmly planted to the threadbare floor mats, legs locked to the bench. Xan, mortified as ever, is resting his forehead against the steering wheel. Anya, oblivious as ever, fiddles with the volume knob for a change. Willow, somewhere in between, resumes staring at her own quivering lap.  
  
Three guesses who, of the four of them, recovers first.  
  
"Yes," Spike interjects, his tone liquid velvet, "and yet not quite as effective as silk cord."  
  
"*Yes*!"  
  
The topic of conversation has turned from demon laundry to demon bondage, and Xander shows his appreciation by shooting Spike a dirty look in the rear view mirror. The blond vampire sneers back, more amused than threatened.  
  
Willow watches most of this exchange between strands of red, eyes downcast, focused on anything other than her own shaking. A large pale hand swims into view, settling on one knee. Having learned to swallow her surprise, she looks over to catch Spike's eyes, less glittery now, more of a steady shining. Sunlight bouncing off a silver hand mirror, her mother's wedding band, the goldfinch's polished beak. And focused on her. Holding her gaze, the former master smiles as he pats the trembling limb, then squeezes.  
  
*Hard*.  
  
It's not until after she thinks she hears her tendon snap that he lets up, releasing her with a parting stroke and returns to his earlier position: seated tall and confident, looking out the window as the Honda shifts into gear once again. For the perceptive redhead to his right, the message is clear: he's shown his appreciation for the distraction, and now she knows not to attempt it again. Thanks pet, but no thanks again. Careful, evil. Remember? Can't be vulnerable and can't get too used to comfort. Especially not from some wonky dilettante witch human loser. Would rather stake oneself, you know.  
  
"Hey Chubs, how's about scooting your fat arse up a bit? I'm a demon, not a contortionist."  
  
Willow, sitting tall in her own seat, isn't phased. At least not until next the next apocalyptic crisis which, knowing this town, can't be too far away. But, for now she risks yet another glance down at their stilled laps.  
  
She's never seen his knees before.  
  
They're *cute*.  
  
************************************************************************* 


End file.
